


today pours down to keep us grounded

by lesprita



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, In which Sam reaches out, Intimacy, M/M, Male Character of Color, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, and Bucky is a fool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesprita/pseuds/lesprita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's two in the morning and Sam didn't expect any visitors, least of all Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	today pours down to keep us grounded

**Author's Note:**

> sequel fic to imaginebucky's [ask](http://imaginebucky.tumblr.com/post/82944880480/imagine-bucky-living-on-the-street-and-struggling-to)

Sam is almost asleep when he hears the buzzer sound only once. His sleep addled mind almost elects to ignore it, except, his instinct tells him to go check and Sam learned a long time ago to listen to that voice. 

He’s not disappointed.

“Bucky?” 

Yeah, it’s him. Underneath the hoody and barely holding himself together, is Bucky Barnes. He’s pale, unusually more so than he’s allowed to be, and the right arm he’s supporting with his metal one is shaking more than his entire frame. Bucky looks him right in the eyes, crows feet creasing under the skin, and he asks, voice hoarse and scratchy, “Can I sleep here?” 

Before Bucky even finishes the question, Sam’s already opening the screen door and motions for him to come in. Whatever plans to sleep is long gone and dreaded worry settles in his chest when Bucky starts coughing violently while coming in. 

“God, are you okay?” He has a hand on Bucky’s back to support him and he knows it must be real bad when Bucky doesn’t even react to the sudden touch. His body rattles when it lies on the couch and Bucky has his eyes closed when he nods like it’s exhausting just to do that. 

Sam goes to the kitchen, takes a glass out of the cabinet and pours in cold tap water from the sink, his mind racing. When did he get this sick? Or the better question, how _long?_ Should he take him to the hospital? 

Should he call Steve? 

Sam hesitates briefly. Steve would want to know, would want to be there for Bucky and he can imagine Steve sick with worry. He opts against it; if Bucky wanted to see Steve, he knows where he lives, though that doesn’t comfort Sam at all. When he does return to Bucky, he’s recovering from another painful coughing fit as if his body wanted to get rid of his lungs. Sam kneels on the carpeted floor right by his side and tips the glass to him. “Bucky? Here’s some water.” 

Panic almost has him reach for his phone when Bucky doesn’t respond for a moment that stretches too long. But one bleary eye opens to regard Sam and it’s utter relief to hear his voice, no matter how awful it sounds. “S’okay. Just... Just go back to sleep. I’ll be gone in the morning.” 

Sam frowns and places the glass on the coffee table. “No. No, you don’t have to.” 

“I'm in the way.”

“You’re not,” Sam says firmly. “Look, the water? It’ll be right here when you need it.” 

Bucky nods, giving up and he closes his eye. Sam stays kneeling, studying the man. The smell hits him the hardest; it’s not smell itself that makes his stomach churn, but the smell being there at all because as far as he and Steve were concerned, Bucky has a home. His clothes are even worse condition: there’s dark stains on random parts of his jeans and jacket. Mud covers his boots and it leaves stains on the armrest of his couch. It’s almost as if he’s been sleeping on the streets.

The thought twists Sam’s mouth to a grimace. There’s been instances like this before where Sam had to refuge vets from the center because being alone or even in their own homes was unbearable. Not a whole lot, but enough that this surprise visit isn’t new experience to him. Some vets, they don’t... there’s only so much pain that gets bottled up inside before it starts clawing at you when you least expect it.

How long did Bucky feel like that?

Sam stands eventually. He takes a thin blanket out of the closet and pools it over Bucky, up to his collarbone, and the other man doesn’t protest. He wants Bucky to take the filthy clothes off into something more comfortable, but that can wait until morning. For now... this will have to be enough, as much as he hates it. He drags a chair from the dining room, places it next to Bucky and sits. 

Sam thinks Bucky’s sleeping until his voice pulls his attention. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Bucky’s barely awake and trying to keep the sleep at bay. Sam leans forward, elbows on his thighs, and smiles a little. 

“Don’t worry about it. Just get some rest,” he replies, then adds more softly, “You’re safe.” 

Something flashes in his eyes, something Sam can’t decipher, but it’s there and gone and Bucky swallows thickly. Sam repeats himself, just to let it get through to him.

“You’re safe.” It’s enough to get Bucky to sleep and Sam watches over him.

 

– 

 

He wakes up to the sound of glass shattering. 

Sam jumps up from his seat and ice runs through his veins when he sees the couch is vacant. _Fuck!_  

He darts in the kitchen, switching on the light by the archway and stops short of entering.

Thankfully, it’s Bucky. But there’s something about the way he’s standing that gives Sam pause. Shards of what was once a glass cup is splattered all over the linen floor. His arm, the flesh and bone one, is shaking again and his metal hand is curled in a tight fist, a metallic sound grinding together. His eyes, where they were once a dark, dull blue, now were too sharp and far, far away. He doesn’t notice the lights or Sam’s presence. Just standing there, breathing unevenly and beads of sweat rolling down the side of his head. 

He’s having a flashback. 

Sam takes a deep breath and methodically counts to ten in his mind. Then, in a soft voice, “Bucky?” 

He doesn’t respond. 

Sam walks slowly towards him. His hands are visible. “Bucky.” 

Still no answer. He stops two steps away. “Bucky, it’s me, Sam. You can come back. You’re not here to fight.” 

The shiny, metal hand continues to curl tighter and tighter. 

“Come back to me, buddy. You’re safe now. You don’t have to fight.” 

It takes another few minutes of Sam repeating himself _(You’re safe, come back to me, you’re safe, you don’t have to fight),_ but the grinding sound eventually stops. Tiny fragments of glass sprinkle to the floor as he loosens his grip and Sam suddenly has a pretty good idea on what happened to the missing glass cup. Bucky still breaths hard, his flesh and bone arm still trembles, but his eyes are no longer glazed. It starts to focus, returning to the here and now. He blinks and slowly lifts his head and stares at Sam. Stares and stares and Sam can see the gears slowly turning, remembering and putting pieces back together like the final moves of a puzzle.

“I–” He starts coughing again. It’s not as violent as hours before, but his erratic breathing doesn’t help and he hunches over, using his metal arm to cover his mouth. Sam instinctively catches his elbow and holds it while Bucky coughs. His head is still bowed when the coughing fit does stops and he's still. So stiff that Sam begins to think he should let him go. 

Until he crumbles. 

Or he tries to. Sam has his arm around his back, supporting him, as Bucky sinks to the floor. He goes down with him, his knees on the shards of scattered glass. It hurts – but not as much as this. Sam holds him while the other man heaves shallow breaths. It gets louder, more desperate like there’s not enough air, and his arm just wont stop _shaking_ – 

He takes authority. “Bucky, I need you to breathe.” 

“I–” a gasp, “I _can’t._ ” It sounds like a plea.

“Yes you can. Breathe. Breathe with me,” Sam inhales, letting his chest rise, and then fall. “See? Your turn.” 

Bucky swallows. Sam inhales again, this time, holding his breath, waiting for Bucky to do the same. Underneath him, he feels Bucky hesitate then take a quick, deep breath. 

“Again. Slower. _Breathe_.” 

Bucky obeys. He opens his mouth, takes in a mouthful of air, then exhales through his nose. He does it again and again, with Sam guiding him, coaxing him. Rubbing his back in soothing circles, whispering words of safety. Bucky’s hand stops shaking at some point and grips on Sam’s arm like a lifeline. That’s what they do for long time, on the kitchen floor. Sam cradles him against his chest, embracing him and letting Bucky ride through the after affects of the small shudders. Bucky leans on him, his laboring breaths more steady and controlled. He doesn’t try to move away and Sam doesn’t let him go. 

“I forgot where I was.” Bucky’s voice is low, hoarse, and tired. “I thought... I thought I was somewhere else.” 

“And now?” 

“I remember. I’m making your apartment smell like a dump.”

Sam chuckles briefly, despite himself. “To be fair, I think that’s more on your clothes than you.” 

Bucky lifts his head away from Sam’s chest and leans back, sitting. Sam does too and wipes the few shards from his knee. Bucky’s breathing returns to normal, even if he still looks like shit. He looks calmer, maybe a little amused, but still too pale and exhausted.

“I’m... glad you answered the door,” Bucky says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. His flesh and bone hand isn’t shaking, but he’s regards it as if it might at any moment. 

Sam smiles. “Me, too.” He looks at him at him then and what he really wants to ask is how long was it this bad, but he doesn’t want to trigger another panic attack. Instead, he asks, nodding to his hand, “The hand alright?” 

A shrug. “Yeah. It does this sometimes.”  

His heart broke a little. Many assume he’s helped people like Bucky so many times, it gets easier to treat their recovery and The Story is always the same. They never realize it _doesn’t:_ it just gets easier to accept they survived horrendous circumstances and the fucked up shit they go through because of it. “I’m sorry,” Sam says quietly.

Bucky shakes his head, frowning. “No. I’m the one who’s sorry. I barely know you and I’m causing all this fucking trouble over my problems–”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Sam interrupts before he can get another word in. “A, stop apologizing because if you really were being a hindrance, I wouldn’t have let you in. B, of course _I_ should be sorry, you were in trouble and no one knew. And C, if you really are sorry, stay for a few days and let me help you.” Sam doesn’t want to take his choices away, but hell if he’s letting this kid walk out like this. Without knowing he at least has one person to talk to, even if they only associated through Steve.

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. His gaze is distant as he studies his flesh and bone hand, without the far off stare like he was in another place, another time. Sam lets him consider it, review his options. The last thing he wants is for Bucky to feel pressured.

It’s when the first early birds outside start chirping and the sky is a light, purple color that Bucky answers. “I’ll stay. On one condition.” 

“Shoot.” 

“Don’t tell Steve about any of this. Or that I’m here,” Bucky says and he sounds ashamed, like the thought of Steve knowing is a unbearable. “I’m not... I’m not the kind of person I want him to see right now.” 

Sam didn’t like it and he wants to tell him that all Steve wants to do is help too, but... this isn’t his call to make. Whatever decision he makes, it’s his alone. “Deal,” he replies.  

Bucky looks relieved. He opens his mouth, closes it like he doesn’t know how to articulate what he wants to say. He sighs, defeated, and says, “Thank you. For everything.”

Sam sees that Bucky means it and, well, yeah, he knows it was worth every minute just to see him in that good place. Knowing he can let his guard down and just be.

“Anytime.”

 


End file.
